


The Case of the Missing....

by Beth H (bethbethbeth)



Category: Good Omens, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, M/M, Meta
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-05
Updated: 2011-01-05
Packaged: 2017-10-14 10:52:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/148471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bethbethbeth/pseuds/Beth%20H
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Crowley has gone missing, and Aziraphale hasn't a clue how to go about finding him. Luckily, help comes from above...or rather, from the side.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Case of the Missing....

**Author's Note:**

> _Written in December for the 2010 edition of[the go_exchange](http://community.livejournal.com/go_exchange/126006.html#cutid1), who wanted to see a bit of Sherlock (BBC) along with her Good Omens._

_"I wrote a book once. It was a triffic book. It was nearly eight pages long. It was about this pirate who was a famous detective."_ -Adam Young

  


***

Pirates, thought Aziraphale, were not what the situation called for, but the presence of a detective, famous or otherwise, would be _more_ than welcome.

Where _was_ he?

For some time now, ever since that night in Lower Tadfield - ever since the night he and Crowley had almost died (or had come as close as it was possible for celestial beings, former and otherwise, _to_ die) - not a night had passed without at least _some_ contact between the two of them, "touching base," as the Americans say. However, three days ago, Aziraphale had informed Crowley that he had plans for the following evening which didn't include _him_ , and since that night, Crowley had simply...disappeared.

Was Crowley's disappearance his fault? Was it because he'd lied? Because the truth was, he'd _had_ no plans, or no fixed ones, at any rate. Yes, Aziraphale had entertained the idea that it might be pleasant to go out dancing - _proper_ dancing like the gavotte, not those peculiar gyrations of Crowley's - but dancing was, Aziraphale knew, really only an excuse to see if that odd sensation he'd been feeling in the region of his chest every night when he was in Crowley's presence would go away.

The feeling _hadn't_ gone away, but Crowley had, utterly and completely, and the fact that Aziraphale felt his absence so keenly - felt it as strongly as if a sudden tear had appeared in the fabric of existence when previously, entire _centuries_ had gone by without Aziraphale ever noticing that his demonic counterpart hadn't been around for some time - was, not to put too fine a point on it, deeply disturbing. However, short of sending a request for assistance to _Hell_ , Aziraphale had run out of possible avenues for his search.

He walked glumly through the London twilight, insensible to the light rain falling on his bare head and soaking his pale blue shirt, until eventually he arrived at St James' Park. Aziraphale would have liked to tell himself there was no particular reason for having chosen this destination, but one lie per decade (unrelated to book collecting, of course) was more than enough.

Despite the lateness of the hour and the inclement weather, Aziraphale could sense the presence of at least one other person in the park. For the briefest of moments, he felt certain it was Crowley, but his wish proved insufficient to the task of making Crowley manifest.

Instead, in their usual spot by the duck pond stood a tall man leaning casually on a rolled-up umbrella. He was wearing an impeccably tailored, bespoke suit that Aziraphale envied, regardless of the fact that envy was still, as far as he knew, one of the Seven Deadly Sins. 180 thread count _minimum_ and impossibly, both the suit and the man were dry, as if mere nature had no power over them.

"Mr. Raphael, I presume?" the man said as Aziraphale neared. "I've been expecting you."

"Have you? I'm afraid you have me at a disadvantage."

"Yes, terribly sorry. My name is Mycroft Holmes, Mr. Raphael, and I've been reliably informed that you're in need of the services of my brother."

Oh, for the love of...the last thing Aziraphale needed was some fanatical Doylist playing silly buggers. "Don't tell me, let me guess: I suppose your brother is a detective named Sherlock, currently residing at 221B Baker Street?"

"Sherlock is my brother, yes," said the man calling himself Mycroft Holmes. Only the tiniest twitch in the upper corner of his right eye suggested how unused he was to not having the upper hand, particularly when it came to information about his sibling. "In any case, I am merely a minor player in the great game, sent by one of my many superiors to deliver a message. What you choose to do with that information, Mr. Raphael, is entirely up to you."

Aziraphale frowned. The man was neither 'heavily built' nor 'massive,' but there appeared in his gaze the sort of subtlety and alertness that _did_ bring Doyle's minor character to mind. If there was even the slightest chance that this play-actor or his 'brother' could shed some light on Crowley's disappearance....

"All right," he said. "Let's say I believe you. How do I contact your brother?"

The man retrieved a sleek electronic device from his breast pocket, then waited expectantly for Aziraphale to say more. "Your colleague's address?" he said finally. "If I know my brother, he'll want to start there."

***

Sherlock Holmes - as of course the man had introduced himself upon arriving at Crowley's flat - presented Aziraphale with a puzzle.

While the brother had appeared to be something other than he'd characterized himself - there was clearly nothing _minor_ about the role he played in the "great game - Aziraphale could see he was simply a man among other men.

The same could not be said about Sherlock. There was something almost inhuman about the tall, pale man, not cruel or monstrous, but somehow untouched by the mundane concerns of humanity. In fact, had Aziraphale not been in possession of the innate ability to separate at a glance all the denizens of Heaven and Hell from the Earth-bound primates amongst whom he and Crowley had been living for aeons, he might have been convinced that Sherlock's origins were quite different from those of his brother Mycroft.

So almost inhuman, but not entirely, which Aziraphale, even on such a short acquaintance, ascribed in large part to the presence of John Watson in Sherlock's life. Biographer, partner, flatmate, friend, and quite likely something rather...more. This last was just speculation on Aziraphale's part; unlike Crowley, he considered it 'cheating' to just pluck truths out of the minds of men and women.

Unlike Crowley.

"Mr Holmes," Aziraphale began.

"Sherlock," the man muttered without turning around.

"Are you making any progress...Sherlock? It's quite all right if you haven't; I really don't think you're likely to come up with anything I overlooked, but your brother--"

"My _brother_ ," said Sherlock dismissively, "is an interfering arse, and in any case, is unqualified to pass judgment on anything I do."

"And what is it you _do_ do?" Aziraphale asked, almost politely.

"I observe," said Sherlock. "For instance, I observe that neither my brother nor you have mentioned exactly why the three day absence of a grown man - presumably of sound mind - who had no prior commitments should be treated as worthy of investigation. There's also the even more intriguing question of what your relationship is to the absent Mr. Crowley, and why his movements are, to be frank, any of your concern, as the two of you are clearly not related to one another, which I established based on a vast list of reasons far too tedious to enumerate"

"Nor," he continued, looking Aziraphale up and down in a most condescending way, "do you appear, on the surface, to be work colleagues. It was quite easy to establish that you, Mr. Raphael, are the proprietor of a bookshop, for which, surprisingly, given your boringly upstanding persona, you haven't paid taxes, rates bills, or rent in...well, shall we just say 'forever' and leave it at that? Mind you, your shop - which you appear to have owned for far longer than you've been alive - has also never made even the slightest profit, so perhaps it all balances out in the end? In any case, the bookshop belongs to you, while Mr. Crowley's business is...well, determining exactly what it is he _does_ is quite a stumper, as there's no evidence that he works for a living, oversees rental properties, manages an inheritance, or otherwise possesses any other legitimate means of acquiring funds. He _could_ , of course, be a member of the criminal class - as could you, I suppose - but it's all but impossible for criminals in this day and age to make it through even their teenage years without leaving behind quite a lengthy paper trail, which neither of you have done, and you, at least, don't seem to be the sort of person capable of expunging such a record."

What a complete arse, Aziraphale fumed inside. I've been thwarting bureaucrats far longer than this wet-behind-the-ears whelp has been alive, and as for Crowley...he _invented_ record keeping!

"And then there's the rather extreme differences between the two of you where lifestyle is concerned...."

Aziraphale snorted indelicately. Sherlock Holmes had no _idea_ how big a gulf there actually was between the 'lifestyles' of demons and angels.

"...the most modern of electronic gadgetry and an abundance of luxury items, while you are more inclined towards the traditional, the classic, the stodgy, the--"

"Yes, yes," Aziraphale snapped. "I believe you've made your point."

"I've barely _begun_ to make my point," Sherlock said arrogantly, reading an incoming text message while his companion John stood close by, shaking his head. "We have yet to consider either the far more obvious reason why you might be so concerned for the welfare of someone to whom you have no apparent ties _or_ the whereabouts of that particular individual, the answer to which is, of course, the reason I was brought in for a consultation."

"Yes, and perhaps you might share your conclusions, Mr Holmes, since thus far, all I've seen is a combination of the sort of research one can presumably do nowadays on that...interweb, and an assortment of cheap parlour tricks known to every charlatan psychic for the past hundred years. Oh yes, you're not the only one with amazing deductive talents," Aziraphale said, having a surprisingly hard time bringing to mind details from the short stories Sir Arthur Conan Doyle had written so many years earlier. "You with your visits to opium dens and your emerald tie pins from the Queen and your interest in beekeeping."

Sherlock and John exchanged glances, then Sherlock shook his head. "Interesting conjectures, Mr. Raphael, although ones which might have been more grounded in reality if we were living in the nineteenth century. I suspect my observations are rather more pertinent, although you're free to think otherwise. Anything to add, John?"

John Watson shifted his weight and leaned slightly against Crowley's desk. "Not a great deal, except for the fact that our friend here hasn't actually drawn a breath for the past nineteen minutes."

For a moment there was silence, and even Sherlock looked shocked briefly before his expression shifted to impressed. "Well done, John. Any thoughts about my colleague's observation, Mr. Raphael?"

Aziraphale didn't imagine that trying to explain precisely why he wasn't in possession of an autonomic nervous system would go over terribly well, so instead he decided to fall back on the sort of conversational gambit which had served him quite adequately over the years.

"Er...yes, well...you see."

He paused, hoping the loquacious Sherlock Holmes would take advantage of the opportunity to say more, but the man just stood there, head bent slightly to one side, waiting for Aziraphale to continue.

And then providence smiled down upon Aziraphale in the form of a key turning briskly in a keyhole.

All three men turned towards the door, which opened to reveal not only the no-longer-missing Crowley, but a pleasant looking man in a police constable's uniform, who upon further inspection, turned out to be Adam Young. [1]

"What's all this, then?" Adam said sternly, before breaking character and laughing.

Aziraphale frowned. "Adam? Have you become a...."

"Oh this?" Adam said, looking down at his police uniform. "No, I'm just doing a favour for a friend."

Out of the corner of his eye, Aziraphale could see Sherlock trade another meaningful look with John, before scowling at his Blackberry. Sherlock had just started to ask what, exactly, that friend's name _was_ , when both he and John froze in place.

Aziraphale glanced over at Adam, but the young not-a-constable had wandered over to the other side of the room to have a chat with Crowley's house plants and give his two 'godfathers' a bit of privacy.

"So angel, did you miss me?" Crowley asked, taking off his sunglasses and polishing them on his shirttail.

"Not in the least," Aziraphale sniffed, realizing a moment too late that he'd just broken his vow to refrain from lying for the remainder of the decade. But _really_...it wasn't at all fair to expect him to remember such things when he...when...when did Crowley's yellow eyes with slitted vertical pupils get to be so damned attractive and distracting?

"Oh, all right, I might have missed you. Just a bit. Not that you cared," he said petulantly.

"I did, you know."

"I find that hard to believe, given your absence for three days _without a blessed word_!"

"Yeah, sorry about that," Crowley said, looking down at his nails. "But twenty years of focusing my tempting on you without so much as a nibble, and...well."

"You _what_? Where did you get the idea that I wouldn't have been willing to... _nibble_?"

"Come on, angel. You made it quite clear that you weren't even interested in going out dancing with me."

"You don't dance."

"Of course I do," Crowley said indignantly.

"No, you really don't," said Aziraphale. "I've been there when you didn't dance, and I recognize not dancing when I see it."

"Gentlemen," said Adam, returning to them from the suddenly _excessively_ perky collection of house plants by the window. "Is this _really_ the most productive use that two supernatural entities could make of their time?"

Aziraphale had to work terribly hard to keep himself from shuffling his feet on the carpet and murmuring, 'No, sir."

"I'll tell you what," Adam continued. "Why don't I just send these two gentlemen along to Baskerville Hall in Dartmoor where I suspect they're about to find a far more interesting case, and the three of us can go to the Ritz for tea. They're doing some really nice baked apple and raisin scones today."

Aziraphale and Crowley nodded their agreement; they'd both learned over time that it was easier all around to just agree with Adam whenever he came up with a Very Good Idea.

***

It wasn't until the first round of smoked salmon sandwiches had been consumed and the second cup of Lapsong Souchong Imperiale had been poured that Aziraphale remembered what he'd meant to ask earlier.

"Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Mycroft...they're all fictional characters, aren't they?"

"Well," Adam said slowly, "they certainly _were_ before this morning, but now that they're here, I think it would be awfully impolite to wish them out of existence again."

"Er...I suppose so?"

"After all," Adam said, reaching for a cucumber sandwich. "Who's to say the two of you weren't once merely the vaguest of notions, born of a random creative spark. And yet, here you are, real as anything and drinking tea at the Ritz. Sort of makes you think, doesn't it?"

Aziraphale and his demonic counterpart exchanged a rather nervous glance. Yes, it did rather make one think, but the thing it made one think _about_ was just how easy it would be for Adam to make it so that he and Crowley had never had any more reality than two characters in a book, and that would never do.

At least not before he and Crowley had an opportunity...to dance.

  


* * *

[1] That Adam had briefly been the Antichrist and still retained the majority of the powers that went along with that rather misunderstood title is _almost_ incidental to this story. Almost. (back)


End file.
